


Just Another Sex Pollen Story

by eluna



Series: Subvert All The Tropes [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of a Case, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bad Sex, Bottom Dean Winchester/Top Sam Winchester, Consent, Crack Treated Seriously, Erotica, Established Relationship, First Time Bottoming, Fuck Or Die, Humor, Hurt Dean Winchester, Kink Negotiation, Last Time Bottoming, Lube, M/M, Masturbation, Miscommunication, Not Your Mother's Fuck-or-Die Curse, POV Dean Winchester, Rimming, Sex Pollen, Trope Subversion, Witch Curses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2017-03-09
Packaged: 2018-10-01 13:10:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10190594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eluna/pseuds/eluna
Summary: He’s halfway through burning the contents of the creep-ass magic trunk under the witch’s bed when Dean pops open an opaque glass phial a little too quickly, giving himself a face-full of sickly yellow powder. Shit. He recognizes the stuff from the hunt—they’d found dust just like this scattered around two of the victims’ homes—and although he and Sam never pinned down the specific mechanics of how to avoid certain death after consuming the stuff, Dean knows enough to realize that he’s got about two days to get laid if he wants to live.As a rule, he and Sammy don’t do anal sex. Okay, yeah, Sam confided in him about a year after they started screwing around that he can appreciate occasional stimulation to his prostate, so sometimes Dean will watch as Sam sticks a finger up there, maybe even jerk Sam off while it’s happening, but Dean doesn’t do butt stuff, and even Sam made it very clear that the thought of getting that close to another person’s feces is an instant turn-off for him.“I hope you know it’s completely un-arousing to see you hurt,” Sam says solemnly.“Well, hopefully the attractiveness of my magical butthole will make up for it enough to get your dick hard enough to do this,” says Dean.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Part one in a loose series of otherwise-unconnected, trope-subverting stories. No actual explicit sex here, but the discussion of sex and preparations for sex are pretty graphic, so I still went ahead and rated this E. The Wincest had to be established relationship in order for this to do what I wanted it to, but since I fundamentally don't like established Wincest and personally don't see it working at any point in the show, I've left the time frame open so that you can imagine this story set during whichever season you like, or possibly in a far future where Sam and Dean are still hunting monsters while together monogamously.

They end up killing the witch. Neither of them likes it—the witch was still a human, after all, even if he was messing around with dangerous sex magic that’s gotten at least four people killed already—but Sam’s big “talk-it-out” gambit is a bust, and when the witch makes a move on Sammy, Dean’s done playing. The head shot gets blood splatters and maybe some brain bits all over Sam’s face, so the kid retreats to the witch’s master bathroom to clean up while Dean, cackling at Sam’s expense, gets to work scourging the house of all things witchy, so that none of that shit gets into the wrong hands after the police find the body.

He’s halfway through burning the contents of the creep-ass magic trunk under the witch’s bed when Dean pops open an opaque glass phial, ready to confiscate whatever’s inside it, a little too quickly, giving himself a face-full of sickly yellow powder. Shit. He recognizes the stuff from the hunt—they’d found dust just like this scattered around two of the victims’ homes—and although he and Sam never pinned down the specific mechanics of how to avoid certain death after consuming the stuff, Dean knows enough to realize that he’s got about two days to get laid if he wants to live.

Conveniently, he’s got a sexy baby brother to help with that.

“Sammy,” Dean calls out when he hears the bathroom door creak open a few minutes later. “Little problem over here.”

Scrubbing at his face with a fluffy pink hand towel, Sam crosses the room in three massive strides and sighs at the residue coating Dean’s face. “You _didn’t_. You know what that does to a person, come on, man.”

“S’not like I roofied myself on purpose,” Dean grumbles. “But it’s an easy fix, right?”

Sam looks totally unimpressed as Dean waggles his eyebrows and grins. “I’m not touching you until you wash that off and change your clothes. We don’t know what we might need to do to break the spell—”

“Sex, little brother, sex. We already know this.”

“But our usual… fare… might not be enough. This is ancient magic, and old witches were weird and specific—and heteronormative. What if you can only break it by sleeping with a woman?”

“Oh, Sammy, I’m sure you won’t mind if I sleep around a little if it’s a choice between staying monogamous and staying alive.”

Rolling his eyes, Sam says, “I still think it’s better if we don’t _both_ get infected for as long as we don’t know what it might take to crack this thing. Go and clean up, jerk.”

He goes and cleans up his face, but it’s not until they’re back at the motel that he can find a change of clothes in order to shower. Sam gives him a good ten minutes alone in there to soap up before joining him, crowding Dean up against the tiles before they both suck each other off, problem solved.

Except—not.

The witch’s victims typically began manifesting symptoms of having consumed sex pollen after eight to twelve hours. As long as the curse inflicted by the pollen remained unbroken, an initial series of scabs and bruises would progress by the twenty-fourth hour into open sores and boils across the body that, over the course of the following day, corroded away each victim’s entire skin—if it didn’t kill them first. Already banged up from working the case, Dean isn’t forced to admit that the blow jobs he swapped with Sammy in the shower didn’t break the spell until around hour fourteen, when the scabbing on his abdomen breaks open into an oozing wound.

Sam’s face looks like an obnoxious mix of smug and consternated. “I told you. I told you it might not be enough.”

“But I don’t understand. I had sex with a woman today.”

His brother blinks. “You did?”

Dean shrugs. “After lunch? When you spent two hours locked in the bathroom with a little case of indigestion?”

It takes Sammy a second to put it together. “That was you?”

Smirking, Dean reaches into his pocket for the little bottle of laxatives and holds it up to the light for Sam to inspect. “I went out to the Impala with the motel receptionist while you were in there. I thought you wouldn’t want to have to—see it, or be thinking about it while I was doing it, if it came to that.”

Opening and closing his mouth a few times in succession, Sam eventually responds, “And you—did it properly?”

“ _Yes_ , Sammy, I ejaculated into her vagina without a condom, and I made sure she got about six orgasms of her own in, too, before that, just in case it ended up being important. I'll go to a clinic for a workup when this is over.”

“You’re sure she didn’t fake them?”

“She didn’t fake them!”

“Because some women can very convincingly fake an—”

“Would she have faked _six_ in a row to get me to hurry up if she weren’t enjoying herself? I am _attentive_ when I’m with a partner, thanks,” Dean says, honestly a little offended that Sammy apparently doesn’t _know_ this about him by now.

“Yeah, that’s true,” Sam mumbles, and his face goes slack and happy for just a moment. “Okay, so she didn’t fake them—probably. You realize what this means, right?”

“We don’t have _time_ to track down all our witnesses again, and the witch is dead—”

“I know. But he probably has a book of spells somewhere in that house that will tell us how to fix this.”

“I confiscated everything while you were prettying your face in the bathroom, remember? Whatever texts on witchcraft I found in that place, I already burned.”

Sam sighs. “Dammit. Okay. I’ll get my laptop out. Be ready to look up anything you can find about sex pollen.”

As it turns out, most of what they uncover is just—gross, rapey porn, and while Sam insists on treating it like valid lore and reading it intently, Dean clicks the fuck out of all that shit and keeps digging. It pisses him off that anybody could think this stuff is wank-worthy material when Dean’s about to turn into a walking acid burn if he doesn’t figure out how to deal with it. Over an hour later, he hits pay dirt.

“Think I got something,” he tells Sam.

Sam’s face is a little red when he shuffles over to Dean’s bed. Quiet for the moment, he glances over the article. “Is that Greek?”

“Yep. But I plugged it into Google Translate, and…” Dean switches tabs and skims it again, Sammy’s breath thick against his shoulder. “I _think_ what that’s supposed to mean is that the victim’s gotta be penetrated during sex.”

“Oh,” says Sam—in Dean’s opinion, entirely too unconcernedly. “But you’ve already done that.”

“Huh?”

“You literally swallowed my semen as I fucked it down your throat. Old magic always assigns power to semen, so—”

“Well, in this case, my ass is just as magical because I think you gotta put your dick in it for this to work.”

Sam looks about ready to tear his hair out. “But that’s so inconsistent. Anal wouldn’t be necessary if you were a woman, so if gender doesn’t matter, then why does it matter which body part…?”

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” Dean mutters.

And it’s not just because the sores are spreading to his limbs and his entire body feels like an open wound. As a rule, he and Sammy don’t _do_ anal sex. Okay, yeah, Sam confided in him about a year after they started screwing around that he can appreciate occasional stimulation to his prostate, so sometimes Dean will watch as Sam sticks a finger up there, maybe even jerk Sam off while it’s happening, but _Dean_ doesn’t do butt stuff, and even Sam made it very clear that the thought of getting that close to _another_ person’s feces is an instant turn-off for him. What they have—hands and lips and the occasional slim vibrator inside of Sam—works just fine for them. Hell, that quickie with the receptionist today was the first time Dean’s had sex with someone besides Sam in over a year, and even getting his dick inside a vagina again was just—underwhelming—compared to the things Sam makes him feel.

He tells him as much, if only because the kid’s looking mopey and the sex they’re going to have to have in a minute won’t be as bad if Sam is acting minimally sulky. Sammy smiles kind of sadly and pulls Dean close to his chest, careful to loop his arms where they won’t jostle too badly the bandages they’re using to cover up Dean’s injuries. “I hope you know it’s completely un-arousing to see you hurt,” he says solemnly.

“Well, hopefully the attractiveness of my magical butthole will make up for it enough to get your dick hard enough to do this.”

“This isn’t funny, Dean.”

“No, but it’s true. Seriously, you just have to come inside of me, right? Let me blow you, and you can just… shove it in when it’s ready to, well, blow.”

Sam’s frowning in the stupid way that makes him look constipated. “I’m not going to just _shove it in_. Do you have any idea at all how much that would hurt? We’ll need to lube you up, for starters—”

“So dump some lube on your dick first—but I don’t want to spend any more time than I have to with anything jammed up there. We get hurt all the time.”

“Not like this, we don’t. Sexual trauma is—”

“Fine,” Dean interrupts, just to avoid the lecture. “ _I_ will squirt it up there, and _you_ will put your cock in my mouth until—”

“I can’t, Dean. We’re going to have to prep separately because there’s _no_ way I’m getting an erection seeing you so…” Sam gestures vaguely down at Dean’s variously abused body, wincing.

“Just try and think sexy thoughts about my butthole,” Dean advises as Sam flips him the bird and retreats to the bathroom. “Hey, think about that erotic fiction you were so absorbed in earlier!”

“Fuck you, Dean,” comes the muffled reply.

Dean sighs. “That’s the plan,” he says under his breath.

-

Sam keeps his lube, a big slimy squeeze-tube that’s sticky to the touch, squashed inside a rip in the inner lining of his duffel, not that Dean knows why he goes to the trouble of putting it back there every time he uses it when it’s not like he even keeps it a secret. Dean fishes it out with a dubious look and may or may not give himself a pep talk and a few calming breaths before unscrewing the cap and positioning the nozzle against his butthole inside his boxers. Screwing his eyes shut, he rams the nozzle up into his body and squeezes the tube.

Unfortunately, the gush of lube does _not_ part the walls of his butthole like the Red Sea like he was hoping, and most of the gunk gets pushed back out onto his legs and butt and boxers. “Son of a _fucking_ bitch,” he says as he starts stripping his pants off.

“How’s it going out there? What’s going on?” Sam calls out. The distinctive slapping sounds he’s making in the bathroom are starting to irrationally piss Dean off a little.

“It’s cool. I am as smooth as a baby’s bottom, and soon, my butthole will be, too.”

“Stop calling it a butthole! It’s _not_ hot, and I’m already having trouble thinking sexy enough thoughts to be able to do this.”

“But all I ever call it is my butthole. What else am I _supposed_ to call it?”

“Anything that doesn’t make you sound five years old. Just because we commit regular incest doesn’t mean I want to think about our childhood when we’re screwing.”

“Jeez. Touchy,” says Dean, scowling.

Finally naked, he glares at the offending bottle before squeezing more lube out onto the fingers of one hand. Wincing, he presses his index finger cautiously against his butthole and slowly pushes it inside, trying to actually follow Sam’s advice and wriggle it around to smear around the lube as he works it in and up. It frickin’ hurts, but not as much as he expected it to, and Dean’s starting to drop his guard the littlest bit before his finger hits something hard.

“Sam _my_! I think I hit a turd!”

“ _Dean_!” Sam sounds way too scandalized for someone who puts vibrators up his butt every few weeks. “If you need to take a dump, you do that _first_ , man! Jesus!”

“You never said that! How am I supposed to know that anal isn’t supposed to include some gross poop fetish?” Dean whines, hastily pulling his finger free and wiping the slick on the sheets of Sammy’s bed.

“First of all,” says Sam, “kink shaming is not okay, Dean. There are people out there who are into scat, and there is nothing wrong with them for liking it. _However_ , most people whose goal is to _avoid_ unwanted contact with their poop make a point of cleaning up before they get started. If we had more time, I’d tell you to take an enema or one of the laxatives you so graciously ground up in my lunch today, but…”

Kicking open the bathroom door, Dean raises an eyebrow at Sam’s almost entirely flaccid penis and elbows his way over to the toilet. “If you’re so experienced, you should have mentioned that _before_ you hijacked the bathroom.”

Sam has the decency to look sheepish. “I was a little distracted by the possibility of your imminent death. You… really don’t look good.”

“I’ll be better as soon as you get hard enough to get this thing over with.”

“Yeah, well, watching you literally take a shit isn’t making that any easier. You stay here; I’m getting back in bed.”

Sammy throws the lube into the bathroom just as Dean’s about to flush. For good measure, he hops in the shower and soaps up that whole area to clean all the poop (and the nasty excess lube) out of the line of fire, and then he uses two fingers to lube up again, gasping a little when he _thinks_ he makes contact with his prostate. Seeing as he’s too pissed and in too much pain to feel even a little aroused, though, the whole experience is just jarring and uncomfortable.

Mercifully, Sam’s ready to go when Dean meets back up with him by the beds, thanks to the erotica pulled up on his laptop. Despite what he teased Sam about earlier, Dean sincerely hopes that what he’s reading isn’t a damn sex pollen porno. “I’m just so sorry that your first encounter with anal play has to be like this,” Sam says glumly. “Even if you tried it and didn’t like it, you should have been able to decide whether to experiment on your own terms.”

“I can take it,” says Dean bravely, flopping onto his stomach on his bed. “Lay it on me.”

He starts getting nervous when Sammy hesitates. “I want to try something for a minute first. I’ve never done it before, but it’s supposed to feel amazing, and _I’ll_ feel better about doing this if I can help you relax a little first.”

“…All right, but if I say stop, we’re stopping.”

“Of course, Dean,” says Sam, and does he almost sound a little excited? Dean tries to crane his head around to look over his shoulder, but a second later, Sammy is pinning down the small of Dean’s back with his forearm and—that’s not—oh, _holy_ shit—

“Samuel Winchester, get your _fucking tongue_ the _hell_ out of my butthole!” Dean squawks.

True to his word, Sam retreats immediately. When Dean rolls onto his back, he finds Sam apparently trying to scrub his tongue clean with one rough corner of a blanket. “Fine by me. You taste _literally_ like shit down there.”

“I ain’t touching you again until you brush your teeth _and_ rinse with mouthwash. I’m not doin’ it.”

That, of course, takes another ten minutes, by which time Sam’s boner has gone down again, and he needs another quarter of an hour to get it back up. By the time he finally sticks his dick in, Dean’s sporting new boils on his back and ass that they both awkwardly contort to avoid for the excruciating twelve minutes it takes Sam to finally blow his wad.

“Never again,” Dean vows twenty minutes later, spooned up to Sammy under the sheets with the last few scabs peeling away to reveal firm, pink skin.

Sam nuzzles into his neck and grunts his agreement. “I’ll make it up to you with a blow job,” he offers halfheartedly.

After a moment’s pause, Dean replies, “Ask me again in about a week.”

“Done,” Sam promises, yawning, and Dean smiles and settles in to sleep.


End file.
